


Blood

by AJ_SPontane



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Fandom, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:54:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29257047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJ_SPontane/pseuds/AJ_SPontane
Summary: There's a lot of blood, too much blood. Why is it that blood is the easiest thing to change? A small one-shot about Christine and the Phantom. This is an alternate version of the ending. Much more passive, but definitely very heavy on the feels.
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Hello ladies and dorks, this is my first time writing fanfiction, please leave a comment if you'd like to see more! Enjoy!

In the span of a day, Christine had been the star of an opera, been kidnapped, and had witnessed several people die or almost die because of her. It was perfectly understandable to cry. Or at least that’s what Raoul had said. Again, and again. But she couldn’t seem to cry. It felt too real, like a dream that you weren’t quite sure it was a dream until you woke up from it. Or a nightmare. Nightmares were tangible, so why couldn’t this be a nightmare too?

A knock startled her. She was back in this plush room, full of beautiful materials, regal, perfect for a Vicomte. She turned her head, stared at the door, she tried to speak but her tongue seemed to have fallen asleep, her eyelids drooped, she couldn’t seem to speak.

Another knock. Silence. More of this awoken slumber. Then a sigh. His footsteps recede, leaving Christine alone, well, more alone.

That gunshot, frightening.

His arms around her waist, for once, reassuring. 

For the first time in three days, the slumbering dame stirred. 

The sigh came from inside the room for once. With its exhale, she let go, she closed her eyes, feeling with perfect detail everything that had happened that night.

There was an audible gasp, the entire opera house seemed to have agreed on the timing, everything. His face, as hideous and disfigured as it was, shone with perspiration (singing isn’t easy). The exhilaration of Don Juan seemed to still course through his body.

That is why Christine did not scream, she did not move her eyes away from his face. It wasn’t her first time seeing his flesh. But there was something different, something daring that just made her unable to tear her eyes away from him. She gasped from the radiance that shone in his eyes.

The consequences of her actions ruined that moment. The realization dawned on both their faces. His face shifted to raw fury and hers to fear. She heard him howl in frustration, his actions as hideous as his face. Then his eyes. His eyes brimmed with tears as he looked at her, at the mask in her hand.   
“Why?”   
“I’m so sorry”  
She wanted to cry. She meant it, with every breath she meant it. Never had she felt the full force of sorrow as much as she felt it now. She only gripped the mask tighter. 

Then, the gunshot, loud, obnoxious, the worst kind of music to be played in an opera house. Its blast followed with a strong crescendo as she heard the most angelic cry come from him. Then the blood, his shoulder bloomed a beautiful carnation, she almost reached out and touched it. Instead, she felt his hand grasp her arm as he pulled her away from the stage. He led her to a trapdoor, and for several moments she could only hear his ragged breath and her own pattering. Then a grunt as he tried to light a candle with a wounded arm. 

He turned to her, no admiration shone in his face, and she knew then that she was no longer his muse. For some reason, the realization hurt her more than she thought.

They walked for a few more moments, walked another trapdoor, and stopped. He slumped towards the wall; fatigue is written all over his face. He held on to his wound, the blood dripping onto the hard floor. 

He turned to her.

“Why,” he asked, his velvety voice completely turned monotonous.

“Why?” she echoed his question, uncertain as to what she could possibly say. How do you tame a dragon?

“Yes, why”

“I don’t know”

He looked at her, incredulous, “How could you possibly not know” he said, his voice echoing, a slight tremble in every syllable he uttered, “Do you realize what you’ve done to me? Do you realize how worthless I am without you?”

Her eyes widened. “Worthless?” she scoffed. “From the moment you laid eyes on me you’ve pronounced me your deity. You’ve valued me beyond all else as if I was a statue of gold. Do you not understand-”

“I understand plenty now!” he growled, his eyes blazing with anger. “What about you? You’ve hardly been a perfect damsel, you blindly believed I was an angel, does that not contradict what you just told me?”

“That’s not the point!” she shouted at him.

There was a stunned silence, the flicker of the lantern’s light was the only thing that made sure that time was still moving forward.

“Regardless,” he winced. “We have both been fools.”  
“Yes,” she stated. “We have.”

She quietly gave him his mask noticing how he didn’t even bother to look at her when he took it. She had completely forgotten about it, her palms indented with how tightly she had gripped it.

She glanced at his wound, his hand incapable of stopping the blood. As he tightened the mask onto his face, she couldn’t help but notice how wet the black mask looked after his bloodied hands had touched it.

“Here,” she reached towards him. “Let me.”

He flinched away from her, almost as if the thought of her touch would be as painful as the bullet hitting him.

“No, get away from me, you can hardly stand the look of my face, you won’t stand the sight of raw flesh.”

She huffed, “I’ve seen you plenty of times, just let me.”

“No”

“Come on, you at least have to sit down.”

“NO!”

“WHY NOT?”

“BECAUSE… because….” His scarred lip trembled, tears streaming from underneath the mask. If he hadn’t been leaning against the wall, she would’ve thought his body would crumple. It was as if a weight had just been placed on his thin shoulders. His legs wobbled and he slid down the wall, shuddering into his arm. 

Just like a child, Christine thought.

She sighed, leaning down and lifting part of her outfit, revealing her legs only slightly. She glanced towards the Phantom and saw his eyes widen underneath. She blushed, hastily kneeling and saying, “Don’t get any ideas.”

“I wasn’t thinking anything” he responded gruffly, stiffly turning his gaze to the ground next to him.

With a quick tug, she ripped the hem of her dress, tugging at different layers of her petticoat and tying them together to create a sling. With a few assorted pieces of her fabric, she began to bundle them up hoping to at least slow down the blood. 

She didn’t think she’d have problems with the wounded man in question. It turned out to be equally as difficult as approaching an alley cat. 

He may not claw or bite, she thought, but he certainly is stubborn.

In any other setting, the scene might have been slightly comical, a grown man crawling around a tunnel with an equally grown woman crawling after him.

“Please Angel” she pleaded. “Please, before you get any more hurt.”

“Who do you call Angel, you’ve seen what I am, I am a monster, a demon a-”

“I’m sorry I betrayed you.” She blurted out. “I didn’t want to do it, they all felt it was the best thing to do.”

For some reason, the alley cat decided to let Christine pet him. He proceeded to crawl a little bit closer to her, and with a resigned sigh, he leaned against the wall. 

Christine in turn, grabbed the ripped seams and pressed them on his wound.

“Careful!” he hissed. His entire body contorted away from her, but she willed him to stay still by placing a hand on his chest.

“Hold still!”

“It hurts!”

“It might not hurt so much if you just stayed STILL!” she snapped.

“Damnable woman, you have the delicate hands of a laborer, at this rate I’ll die from your rough hands before the wound can get to me,” he winced, trying to move her hand away from the wound. She only pressed harder, making him yelp and lower his hand.

They sat there in awkward silence, every so often hearing a thump from above. Christine would flinch with every sound, quietly reprimanding her fidgetiness, knowing full well that if they were discovered she would be rescued. 

But why do I fear being discovered? She thought. I would see Raoul; I would be free from Erik.

Her thought was disrupted when the creature’s head began to slowly slide towards her. She held him up as she moved away from the wall. Her face whitened. The rags were completely drenched, the wound continued to ebb that terrible redness, Red Death incarnate. She glanced at his face; eyes were fluttering closed.

“Erik. Erik wake up!” 

The gaps in his face where his eyes would be were darker than usual. She whimpered, feeling a sense of hopelessness as she tried to shake him awake. Her hands were clammy from the feel of dry blood. She felt utterly and complete hopeless.

She felt her throat tighten, her face clenched, “Please…don’t leave me…”

She pulled him in by the lapels of his suit, not caring whether she got blood over her face. She cried, wishing he would move, quietly enjoying the little warmth he still had left. 

At some point she dozed off, time slipped by in that small crevice of the opera. When Christine opened her eyes, the first thing she registered was the absolutely pungent smell of rust metal against her cheek. The second thing she felt was a hand slowly caressing her head. She peeled her cheek away from the body, lifting herself to see his face, his mask. His eyes were fluttering open and closed. For a moment her drowsiness made her forget and she moved her hand to cup his mask. 

Her hand hesitated as she heard his ragged breathing, and then that’s when she saw. His wound. Not as overflowing as before, but incredibly patched. She could only imagine what it looked like under all that dry blood. She shifted her gaze back towards his face, noticing how his breathing had become quiet gasps. Like words, she thought. Realization struck her face, and she tilted her head, moving it closer towards his lips. 

Then, the apparition, the automaton made of deranged flesh. Her beloved teacher, leaned in, “Help me” the machine said. “Please, don’t leave me.”

Christine’s eyes began to tear, she couldn’t do this. Not to herself, not to him. “I can’t,” she sobbed. 

He looked almost dead, but her response seemed to have pushed him over the edge. His eyes became slits, his voice recoiled into his throat, producing a quiet whimper.

The least she could do, she thought, is help him move.

With great pain and a trembling struggle, she managed to hoist him up, slowly. He wobbled on his legs, his hand seemed to have become stuck to his wound, there was little blood dripping. He looked at her, practically begging.

She almost said yes.

She almost let him take her away. 

Instead, he leaned forward and stole the answer from her mouth. His mask pushing roughly against her face, his lips pulling her breath away. She moved with him, pushing every bit of emotion into this one kiss, giving him everything and more that she would never be able to provide. 

After that kiss, she ran. She ran onto that stage, straight into the arms of civilization. Her maestro had limped away after that kiss. No smile. No wave. Not even an acknowledgment. That kiss had absorbed her very existence.

And yet. She felt something, that kiss had taken away every bit of her hate, her remorse, her sorrow. He’d left her scarred in the exact same way that she had left him. 

One knock. 

Two.

Three.

Breathe Christine, breathe.

On the count of three, run back to reality. On the count of three, it never happened. On the count of three, you will be ok.

One. 

Two. 

Three. 

She never forgot.


End file.
